An Unfortunate Victim of Circumstances
by Belphegor
Summary: Newkirk shot her, LeBeau is angry and possibly upset, Carter is kinda sad, Kinch is dumbfounded, and Hogan demands to know who "she" is.


**Author's note**: What happens when some poor hapless trope falls into my clutches? This story. Maybe I should warn readers about wanton cruelty to— But hush … spoilers :o)

P.S.: Thanks to whirlyite for pointing out the silly mistake in the title!

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, and although I'm prepared to take the blame for the original idea, I'll deny owning anything else (like characters, for instance). Unless you torture me, in which case I'll tell you anything you want to hear and stuff you probably won't want to as well._

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><p><strong>An Unfortunate Victim of Circumstances<strong>

Colonel Robert E. Hogan considered himself a good officer and a fairly efficient leader of men, and as such, he had never completely disregarded a bad gut feeling before a mission. Most of the times it made him stop for a second to check whether he had overlooked some important detail, and sometimes he went on with the plan anyway, but his gut was generally right.

So when Newkirk, LeBeau and Carter jumped into the back of the stolen car fifteen minutes later than they should have, each looking more sombre than the other, he began to seriously wonder why he hadn't felt the slightest twinge.

Since Hogan was driving, all he could check in the rear-view mirror was that all three were there, and he didn't dare glance at it too often – driving on a dark road in the middle of a November thunderstorm at two in the morning was dangerous enough. Thankfully, Kinch was in the passenger seat; his short nod confirmed that they were all intact.

They looked unusually grim, though. Especially Carter, who by all rights should have looked his usual cheerful, Boy-don't-you-just-love-fireworks self. But maybe this had something to do with the fact that he was stuck between Newkirk and LeBeau, who kept throwing dirty glares at each other.

For once, Hogan regretted having taken the wheel. His usual piercing squint lost a lot of piercing power through a rear-view mirror.

"Well?" he finally asked as all three kept stubbornly silent, shivering every once in a while in their drenched clothes. "How'd it go your end?"

Uncharacteristically, it was Carter who answered. "Just swell, sir," he said, everything from his uncomfortable shifting to his uncertain tone belying his words. "The factory's blowing up in –" he checked his watch "– seven minutes now. Not that we'll be able to see much of it," he added wistfully, sounding much more normal.

Hogan exchanged a look with Kinch, and nodded, trying to suppress his impatience. Something _was_ wrong, he knew it. But what exactly?

"Good job. You cut it a bit close, though. Trouble on the way?"

This time it was Newkirk who answered, and for a man who usually looked as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth even as he picked your pockets or cleaned you right off at poker with an extra ace, right now he looked guilty as sin – and was making zero effort to appear otherwise.

"No, Guv'nor. Just a lot of rain and not much light to go on. Made it difficult to find our way back, see."

"O_kay_." The guy was lying through his teeth, and from the mulish expressions on the other two's faces, he couldn't count on them to shed any light on the subject – at least not now, and not to him. With any luck, one of them would confide in Kinch, and Kinch would later decide if it was worth reporting to Hogan or if the matter would be best left in NCOs' hands.

Sometimes being the colonel meant you couldn't know _everything_ that went on in camp … No matter how frustrating it was for a man used to knowing almost everything and finding out the rest by hook or by crook.

As it happened, this time he wouldn't be left in the dark, because right after a sharp bend in the road he heard LeBeau mutter angrily, "I can't believe you just shot her."

Hogan's ears perked up. _Wait, what?_

"There's a war on, in case you hadn't noticed," Newkirk hissed back. "We're bound to make some sacrifices every now and then."

"Yes, but I still can't believe you shot—!"

"Will you shut up about it already? How d'you suppose it made _me_ feel?"

"Yeah, well, go tell that to _her_. Oh, wait, you can't – she's dead."

Kinch turned in his seat and shot a sharp look at the three men in the back. "What are you talking about? Who's dead?"

"No-one who matters," LeBeau muttered, a hint of sadness showing through the glower. Newkirk deliberately looked out the rain-splattered window, crossed his arms, and said nothing.

Despite Kinch's insistent look, silence fell – the kind that needed a cleaver to hack through. Hogan concentrated on getting them home safely, which in this case meant braking like crazy to avoid hitting a roe deer that would have made one heck of a dent in Kommandant Klink's car. At least this one was easier to manoeuvre than the slower, bulky staff car.

Until Carter bravely made an attempt at conciliation.

"Well, she did look pretty dangerous," he pointed out in a subdued sort of voice. "And you _know_ she was about to go for your throat, LeBeau. I mean, she was one scary—"

"She wouldn't have." Typical LeBeau – stubbornly defending his ground and not budging one bit. One glance in the rear-view mirror confirmed Hogan's mental picture of the Frenchman: chin jutted out and glowering defiantly. "Never."

This was enough to get Newkirk's attention, and spark up his own anger into fire again. Funny how those two could always be counted upon to get a rise out of each other. "Unlike you, LeBeau, I value me life enough not to bet on it – not with these odds, anyway," he snapped. Then his voice dropped. "Who's to say she wouldn't have alerted the guards, eh?"

"She wouldn't have if you had just let me talk to her! Instead you just shot her, like some sort of …" LeBeau's voice trailed off, but he kept glaring at the Englishman, who glared right back.

In the middle, Carter looked up as though in silent plea for help from above. He started twiddling his thumbs, looking as stiff and uncomfortable as was possible and clearly wishing he were miles away. Kilometres away probably wasn't far enough.

"… Of what?" Newkirk's voice was dangerously low. Hogan knew that tone. It was the utter calm before the storm broke out.

LeBeau's own glare was reminiscent of a pot left to boil for so long the lid probably should be shooting up any second now.

"Cold-blooded killer. That's what you are."

"Guys, come on …"

"Cut it out, you two. You still haven't answered my question."

More than the steely tones in Kinch's usually smooth voice, it was the weary undertone in Carter's plea that made Hogan make a sharp right turn and stop the car. By the sound of it, they would be at each other's throat all the way back and possibly longer, and if he didn't settle the matter now once and for all, trouble might follow later.

He put the gear shift in neutral, pulled the handbrake, killed the engine and turned in his seat to level a piercing squint at the trio.

Not a minute too soon, too. Newkirk and LeBeau were squaring off for another round, while Carter threw them pleading looks in the vague hope that it would be enough to stop things from becoming a fully-fledged international incident.

He was most likely fighting a losing battle. Experience had told Hogan that Newkirk and LeBeau in a mood were an international incident waiting to happen.

"All right, this ends now," he said calmly, fighting an oncoming headache. "Newkirk, what happened? Whom did you kill?"

The Englishman glanced uneasily at Hogan, Kinch, Carter, and finally LeBeau, who kept glowering at him as though waiting to see whether the sheer might of his glare would be enough to set him on fire.

Newkirk failed to burst into flame, and gave a one-shoulder shrug.

"Weren't important, Colonel. The mission was a success, and the factory should be halfway up to the moon in a couple of minutes – that's the important part."

"Not import—mais il a pas de cœur, celui-là!"

"Yeah, well, whatever you said goes double for you, too!"

"Really it's not that bad, sir," said Carter, leaning forward toward Hogan before he could open his mouth to shut them up. "LeBeau's upset because Newkirk shot—"

"I'm not 'upset', Carter," LeBeau interrupted, shifting his glare from Englishman to American. "I'm angry."

Carter met his fierce glower unflinchingly, with a calm, commiserating sort of look in his eyes. "That's okay, Louis. I was pretty upset, too. I mean, it was kinda sad."

Beside Hogan, Kinch opened his mouth, and then closed it wordlessly. Hogan knew exactly what he meant. Carter describing somebody's murder as 'kinda sad' was nothing short of surreal.

Still, he shook himself out of it, and finally retrieved his lost power of speech.

"Listen to me very carefully," he uttered slowly, detaching every syllable and staring at all three in turns to make them understand with crystal clarity that he was most definitely Not Joking, "because we don't have that much time and you clowns are really starting to push the limits of my patience. _What the hell happened?_ Ten words or less."

Carter frowned, LeBeau made to speak, but Newkirk beat them both to it.

"I shot a dog, sir," he said evenly.

Hogan's eyes widened in spite of himself. "A _dog_?"

"When we sneaked in to place the charges. There was a guard dog there, growling and everything. Couldn't risk her barking or running off to someone, and she had a pretty nasty look about her, so I shot her."

"Pauvre bête."

"Will you stow it with the French insults already?"

"I was talking about the dog."

"Okay, can it, you two," Hogan interrupted sharply, trying not to glance at Kinch, who was staring at the three men in the back seat with the most deadpan expression he had ever seen on his sergeant's face. "We still have to return the car to the motor pool and get back in the barracks in time for roll call, so I'll make this quick. You—"

Despite the rain battering down on the roof of the car and the howling of the wind, they still heard a faint boom, and the entire car shuddered.

Carter brightened up immediately.

"Mission accomplished, huh?"

"Yeah, mission accomplished." Hogan pushed up the brim of his cap and focused on Carter and LeBeau in particular. "Look, you two – I'm not saying going around killing dogs is a good thing, but Newkirk made the right call. He had a decision to make, little time to make it, but he made it; now it's done, so I don't want to hear anything else on the matter. Doesn't mean you have to make it a habit, Corporal," he added in a slightly lighter tone.

"No sir," said Newkirk in a low voice after a few seconds.

Hogan had expected an uproar from Carter and LeBeau – particularly the latter – but they remained strangely silent.

"Right. So that's settled, then." He made to return to the wheel, but turned around again when a sudden thought struck him. "Besides, it might not have occurred to you, but that dog was doomed anyway. If Newkirk hadn't killed her, the explosion would have."

He had half-intended it as a grim joke, but the absolute silence around him stopped his hand as he reached for the ignition key, and he glanced around.

Kinch was looking at him from the corner of his eye, and while he had looked for a second as though he was trying hard not to be amused by the whole misunderstanding, his expression now was softer and almost reproachful.

Newkirk was staring out the window again, looking marginally less guilty but more sombre.

LeBeau's eyes were downcast, and he had tipped his beret lower, making it impossible to see his face in the dark.

Carter stared at him, hurt and disbelief all over his features. "Gee, Colonel, did you really have to remind us?"

Hogan refrained from sighing. These men had been and remained soldiers; they had fought in the war, seen men die, killed others; whether it was by shooting a gun on the ground or by dropping bombs from a plane, they knew what they had to do, they had done it, and given the chance they would do it again. It didn't mean they had to like it; frankly, he would never pick a man for his core team if he had liked blood even a tiny bit too much anyway.

So, in a way, it was logical that they would not take lightly to killing an innocent – and an animal _was_ innocent, much more so than the men who trained it.

Besides, it really shouldn't have come as a surprise. Despite his enthusiasm for explosives, Carter was kind-hearted and compassionate, and considered the killing of any creature, large or small, to be a tragedy; LeBeau had spent enough time around the camp's big German Shepherds (bringing them treats, playing with them and generally making sure they didn't forget whose side they really were on) to have grown genuinely fond of the dogs; and Newkirk, despite his usual cheeky, cynical outward attitude, was in all probability taking this much harder than he let on.

Hogan turned his head and met Kinch's gaze. All full Colonel of the USAAC that he was, it took all his self-control not to squirm.

One thing that had amazed him since the first time he had spoken with the staff sergeant was how much James Kinchloe could get across without having to utter even a single word.

He turned again toward his men in the back seat.

"Sorry, fellas," he said in a low voice. "It was bad taste."

Something flitted across the three faces. They didn't look any less glum, but the atmosphere lost a bit of its previous tension.

Carter nodded slowly, but didn't say anything. This, if Hogan knew his Carter at all, was a bad sign.

But time was not on their side, so he started the car and sped off into the dark.

The next day, when Klink spotted the dusty, decidedly dirty car – the very same car Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau were supposed to have cleaned the night before until it sparkled – he called Hogan into his office and started to rant about which terrible punishment he was going to dish out. Convincing him that taking care of the dogs for a week was the worst thing on God's green earth was child's play.

Sure, the idea had its downsides, but after watching Carter try to get Heidi to roll over and sit, Newkirk awkwardly pat Bismarck's head and get a huge, wet lick in return, and LeBeau disappear under a pile of happy dogs with a strangled laugh – while an amused Schultz looked on from a safe distance – Hogan told himself that it wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

As long as they didn't just adopt the first stray mutt they encountered on the street, they should be fine.

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><p><span>TranslationsNotes:

_mais il a pas de cœur, celui-là_: literally, "but he doesn't have a heart, that one". Correct form should be "_mais il __**n'**__a pas de cœur_", but negations tend to get dropped in French dialogue.

_Pauvre bête_: (That) poor beast/animal.

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><p>Might be obvious from the last line, but in my mind this story happens a few days before <em>Man's Best Friend is Not His Dog<em> :o) For the longest time the working title for that one was _Shot the Dog_… Until my brain and I agreed on a less spoiler-y title :D

No animal was harmed in the making of this story. I swear. That's the good thing about writing – the special effects come really cheap, and you don't have to fear the American Humane Association. The characters, now, that's another thing entirely…

Hope you liked :o]


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